lines and lines and lines

Ahh, sleep deprivation. It's good for the soul.

It's my way of merrily trying to break past patterns of behavior. I could always tell I was getting depressed by the amount of time I wanted to sleep. I'm kind of a slave to inertia, usually--when awake, I prefer to stay awake, and when asleep, I prefer never to move again. When I started a downswing, I went to bed earlier and got up much later, and took naps. Now I aggressively pursue wakiness with a kind of scary vigor and almost fall asleep during important meetings. I mean, my head slipped off my arm and came perilously close to hitting the table. It was surreal.

Luckily, the Regional Director was there, and unmarried, and I have a crush. He's probably ten years older than me, but he has all the marks of someone I will have a hopeless crush on. A little dorky, wears jeans well, brilliant, great sense of humor, glasses, spectacular public speaker, amazing energy level, and charisma that makes you want to agree to everything he says. Or makes me want to, anyway. I have no clue how to flirt with someone like that. I have no idea how to not look like a five year old, actually. And God, I'm not a troll, so would it *kill* him to just give me a second look? Please? I'm *right in front of him*. And I'm *not ten*. Stop being so freaking indulgent when I talk.

Hmm. Right. I sound like a teenybopper. This is so sad.

The ten-years-older-thing is throwing me a little, since I tend to fall for younger, but what the hell, we're all about breaking patterns these days.



Anyway, the meeting was to discuss issues with the new program at work. Boring boring boring for those not using it, riveting to us, except coolness that I was one of the two chosen to represent my office, and the chick that came with me made the announcement that I was a trainee for advisor, so I got congratulations from everyone and amusement from the state coordinator, who knows and works with my mom.

*Everyone* knows or has worked with my mom--when I was interviewed, the darn PM was waxing lyrical about my mom. Even the Regional Director, who smiled and called her a fine woman and mentally patted me on the head for following in Mommy's footsteps. Yes, he just reduced me to a ten year old. I'm a puppy for that smile, though. Aww, the state chick said, no surprise you're promoted, we all saw it coming, which considering I didn't, kind of *weird*. I'm beginning to get why people have such high expectations of me. I have massively scary shoes to fill.

It is weird, though. She's been in the agency for years, but it's only now I'm getting what a huge influence she was and is, in policy and in the creation and implementation of the new program. She was a policy specialist before, which means she knew adn interpreted state policy for others. People sometimes tell me how she could make anything make sense, just off the top of her head, because she knew so *much*. I always knew she was smart--she's incredibly, terrifyingly smart, in the theoretical and the practical, with imagination and drive and the ability to make something imaginary become real. So yes, it's fascinating to have a professional level of understanding of what she is. When I start this job, I'll have a personally professional understanding of what she was for years. It's not a little humbling.



Favorite Lines

I would respectfully like to ask for recs for fic, except I'm not sure what kind. I'm not even sure what fandom. And I was thinking of Silvia Kundera's little fic summaries she did last year--anyone have a link to those, btw?

So, instead--I want your favorite lines. You know the ones. The ones that stuck with you and moved you and you loved, loved, loved. That you remember forever after. Yes. *Those*.

Mine are here. Somewhere in my LJ, I swear, I did another set, but damned if I can find it, and it's nowhere on my harddrive that I can find.

So. Anyone?

Comments

[reetchick.livejournal.com]

Ooh, the quote game. I love this game.

In the dark, with previews flashing across the screen and Blair's hand reaching for popcorn, Jim allowed himself to feel almost what he wanted to feel. *Almost* was the nature of his relationship with Blair. He wanted something like this, but better. Not much better, because this was damn good, but more honest. This was so close, though, in its imperfect way; they were close, Blair's arm moving across his lap, Jim tipping the bag, neither of them intent on the other but with gaze to screen, the motion of Blair's fingers in the popcorn carrying in tiny shifts through the bag, the clumsy rhythms of foraging transmitted to Jim's thigh, the smell of butter and Blair's nearness, nearness like a date. He could have put his arm around Blair's shoulders, but would never dare.
*
By the time the movie ended, their fingers were tightly entwined, a cramp of anxious need from Blair that Jim responded to without thinking. He was not aroused, but desire suffused his body. The death he'd witnessed left him cold, but Blair's knuckles were like rough jewels wedged against his own.

A Long Time Looking, (http://www.squidge.org/archive/archive/1_2000_firsts/longtime.html) by Anna S, "The Sentinel." (eliade).